Losing Face
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: His fate has been decided. The Living may not restore the Dead."


**Losing Face**

AN: … Where to begin? Yes, I've been busy. VERY busy. The tests of my lifetime are coming up, I'm drowning in the planning process for my wedding, trying to register for college, and working on a story with a friend of mine in the few scraps of my free time. But, excuses aside, I felt a sudden urge to write this because I had a smidgeon of free time (mostly because wedding planning required that I be pulled out of school today).

Like everything, this is pure speculation, based on what we saw in the finale of season 1. Personally, I wanted to take up a new perspective about a couple of my favorite characters. And if anyone brings up the "But it was Lu Ten!" argument regarding the scene to which I refer, then (as I have no time to properly debate the issue) I'm just going to send one of my many violent characters to go _persuade_ you, along with all those lawyers who feel like suing fanfiction authors who do not have disclaimers on top of every story, even though said authors don't even pretend to own anything. (That was my disclaimer, if you didn't catch it). Or you can just go to one of many forums and debate it there.

* * *

"You may go no further."

The words struck him like a blast of flame—they scorched away at his heart, his mind, his soul, leaving only his body intact amidst the ashes of his former self. He tried to protest, he wept, he pleaded—

"His fate has been decided. The Living may not restore the Dead."

_Then who could?_ He begged for answers, but his guide only drifted away, the hem of its robes dissolving from the desperate man's grip.

"Please," he whispered, his words half-choked through sobs. "Please help me, please—"

But the Spirits gave no reply. He wasn't sure just how long he remained there with his face buried in his hands—it could have been hours, it could have been years. But after an age of grief, his solitude was broken by a voice like tangled silk:

"You really shouldn't carry on like that," it purred. "Especially not here. You might lose your face."

It was his turn to ignore now, and so he gave the voice no reply.

"You," it continued, drawing out the word too long. "Are a human. You have no place in the world of the Spirits."

"I'm looking for my son," the man whispered. "He—"

"Died." There was no real pity in the voice. "I know that. And cannot be returned to you, so you mustn't waste your time asking anymore. You tried, so go home."

The man had once been revered, had once been noble and high and admired. His tears washed away all of his former glories, leaving in their place a little child.

"No. Not without him. I can't—I don't have anything to go back to—" His voice was lost in another sob. "Leave me here. Just let me—Don't make me go back there."

"Why not?" the voice mused. He could sense it hovering over him, it's tangled-silk purr fluttering just over his bowed head. "Surely you can find some way to distract yourself. That war of yours, for example—"

It was cut off by an anguished, almost animal cry. Not the war, the man begged in the long-forgotten language of the howl. Not the thing that stole my son.

"Well, you must do something," the voice said, halfway between boredom and interest. "Why not put an end to this wretched little conflict, then? For your son, of course."

The man's eyes opened warily. For a moment, it seemed… almost noble. Almost right. But then another wave of grief flooded him, and he descended again.

"I can't," he whispered. "It's too much—almost a hundred years—"

"Time has nothing to do with it," the voice said, almost agitated this time. "It's your own weakness that holds you back. You cannot let go, cannot accept defeat—you have no patience, human. And so you can hope to have no clarity."

But he was done listening to the voice. The pain was too much; he reeled with it, his mind spun, he writhed and cringed and wept.

"You are pathetic, little man," the voice said. If he'd been aware enough to listen, he would have heard an odd disappointment in its tone, and with it a taste of pity. "How long ago did your son die? A month now? And still here you are. Crippled. Pathetic."

Still he wept.

"You cannot seriously want this," the voice sighed. And when its words received no response, it tried again: "Your son could not have wanted it, either."

He tried to nod, tried to rise, only to double up again, a quivering heap on the insubstantial ground.

"Pathetic," it said again. "I can… assist you. Liberate you from… this." The man nodded wordlessly. "But naturally, there will be a price."

"Whatever it is," he rasped, "Take it. I don't want it. Just…"

"Then open your eyes and look at me."

It was a chore, an agony, but slowly he pried his hands from his face and raised his head to stare at this new stranger. It was a Spirit—it had to be—but it was nothing like the others had been.

A centipede, thicker than the trunk of a tree, was coiled around him, its thousands of legs shuffling and scurrying at its side. It towered high above him, its head loomed above his—but its face—

All at once he felt himself go numb. His jaw went lax, his eyes sagged, every muscle in his face fell limp. And with it, he felt a part of him draining, sweeping away the ashes that remained of his heart and soul. The torturous grief waned, diminished, until the festering wound became a thorn's prick; the agony, the guilt, the hatred, the vengeance, all of them withered away, leaving only shadows of their former selves.

And staring down at him were his own eyes, his own face, blinking at him from the centipede's head.

"You will return to the human world," it said, and though he could not reply, he knew he would obey. "And you will see what can be done about this bothersome little war of yours." He felt an unfamiliar prickle in his limbs, and pulled himself from the ground. The centipede's coils loosed around him, giving him room to leave its presence.

"Oh," it said, barely an afterthought just before he was out of earshot. "And if you happen to run into the Avatar, make sure he stays alive. I intend to deal with him personally."

* * *

Years later, the broken, half-incinerated man walked onto the dock of the Fire Nation's finest harbor. His limbs prickled with an irresistible urge, and somehow he knew there was something right about this. Something that would comply with Koh's orders, anyway. And so far, those hadn't led him to do anything more unseemly than to join the Order of the White Lotus.

_The Avatar_, he mused, recalling the last afterthought of the Spirit who had come to him. It made sense, really, to go looking for him. Nobody else would be able to end Sozen's War. And he really was fond of his nephew.

_He lacks clarity_, Koh would have murmured.

"He'll find it," Iroh whispered, feeling a sudden tenderness as the realization hit. "He's already given up his face."


End file.
